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WIVES AND DAUGHTERS
‘Yes; very. I have only boys, but it must be very awkward with
a girl. Excuse me, Gibson, but we’re talking like friends. Have you
never thought of marrying again? It would not be like a first marriage, of course; but if you found a sensible agreeable woman of
thirty or so, I really think you couldn’t do better than take her to
manage your home, and so save you either discomfort or worry; and,
besides, she would be able to give your daughter that kind of tender
supervision which, I fancy, all girls of that age require. It’s a delicate
subject, but you’ll excuse my having spoken frankly.’
Mr. Gibson had thought of this advice several times since it was
given; but it was a case of ‘first catch your hare.’ Where was the ‘sensible and agreeable woman of thirty or so?’ Not Miss Browning, nor
Miss Phoebe, nor Miss Goodenough. Among his country patients
there were two classes pretty distinctly marked: farmers, whose
children were unrefined and uneducated; squires, whose daughters
would, indeed think the world was coming to a pretty pass, if they
were to marry a country surgeon.
But the first day on which Mr. Gibson paid his visit to Lady Cumnor, he began to think it possible that Mrs. Kirkpatrick was his ‘hare.’
He rode away with slack rein, thinking over what he knew of her,
more than about the prescriptions he should write, or the way he was
going. He remembered her as a very pretty Miss Clare: the governess who had the scarlet fever; that was in his wife’s days, a long time
ago; he could hardly understand Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s youthfulness of
appearance when he thought how long. Then he heard of her marriage to a curate; and the next day (or so it seemed, he could not recollect the exact duration of the interval), of his death. He knew, in
some way, that ever since she had been living as a governess in different families; but that she had always been a great favourite with
the family at the Towers, for whom, quite independent of their rank,
he had a true respect. A year or two ago he had heard that she had
taken the good-will of a school at Ashcombe; a small town close to
another property of Lord Cumnor’s, in the same county. Ashcombe
was a larger estate than that near Hollingford, but the old Manor-
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ELIZABETH CLEGHORN GASKELL
house there was not nearly so good a residence as the Towers; so it
was given up to Mr. Preston, the land- agent, for the Ashcombe property, just as Mr. Sheepshanks was for that at Hollingford. There were
a few rooms at the Manor-house reserved for the occasional visits of
the family, otherwise Mr Preston, a handsome young bachelor, had it
all to himself. Mr. Gibson knew that Mrs. Kirkpatrick had one child, a
daughter, who must be much about the same age as Molly. Of course
she had very little, if any, property. But he himself had lived carefully,
and had a few thousands well invested; besides which, his professional income was good, and increasing rather than diminishing every
year. By the time he had arrived at this point in his consideration of
the case, he was at the house of the next patient on his round, and he
put away all thought of matrimony and Mrs. Kirkpatrick for the time.
Once again, in the course of the day, he remembered with a certain
pleasure that Molly had told him some little details connected with
her unlucky detention at the Towers five or six years ago, which had
made him feel at the time as if Mrs. Kirkpatrick had behaved very
kindly to his little girl. So there the matter rested for the present, as
far as he was concerned.
Lady Cumnor was out of health; but not so ill as she had been
fancying herself during all those days when the people about her
dared not send for the doctor. It was a great relief to her to have
Mr. Gibson to decide for her what she was to do; what to eat, drink,
avoid. Such decisions ab extra, are sometimes a wonderful relief to
those whose habit it has been to decide, not only for themselves,
but for every one else; and occasionally the relaxation of the strain
which a character for infallible wisdom brings with it, does much to
restore health. Mrs. Kirkpatrick thought in her secret soul that she
had never found it so easy to get on with Lady Cumnor; and Bradley
and she had never done singing the praises of Mr. Gibson, ‘who always managed my lady so beautifully.’
Reports were duly sent up to my lord, but he and her daughters
were strictly forbidden to come down. Lady Cumnor wished to be
weak and languid, and uncertain both in body and mind, without
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family observation. It was a condition so different to anything she
had ever been in before, that she was unconsciously afraid of losing
her prestige, if she was seen in it. Sometimes she herself wrote the
daily bulletins; at other times she bade Clare to do it, but she would
always see the letters. Any answers she received from her daughters
she used to read herself, occasionally imparting some of their contents to ‘that good Clare.’ But anybody might read my lord’s letters.
There was no great fear of family secrets oozing out in his sprawling
lines of affection. But once Mrs. Kirkpatrick came upon a sentence
in a letter from Lord Cumnor, which she was reading out loud to
his wife, that caught her eye before she came to it, and if she could
have skipped it and kept it for private perusal, she would gladly
have done so. My lady was too sharp for her, though. In her opinion
‘Clare was a good creature, but not clever,’ the truth being that she
was not always quick at resources, though tolerably unscrupulous
in the use of them.
‘Read on. What are you stopping for? There is no bad news, is
there, about Agnes? – Give me the letter.’
Lady Cumnor read, half aloud, –
‘»How are Clare and Gibson getting on? You despised my advice to help on that affair, but I really think a little match-making
would be a very pleasant amusement now that you are shut up in
the house; and I cannot conceive any marriage more suitable.»’
‘Oh!’ said Lady Cumnor, laughing, ‘it was awkward for you to
come upon that, Clare: I don’t wonder you stopped short. You gave
me a terrible fright, though.’
‘Lord Cumnor is so fond of joking,’ said Mrs. Kirkpatrick, a little
flurried, yet quite recognizing the truth of his last words, – ’I cannot conceive any marriage more suitable.’ She wondered what Lady
Cumnor thought of it. Lord Cumnor wrote as if there was really a
chance. It was not an unpleasant idea; it brought a faint smile out
upon her face, as she sate by Lady Cumnor, while the latter took her
afternoon nap.
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CHAPTER X.
A CRISIS
Mrs. Kirkpatrick had been reading aloud till Lady Cumnor fell
asleep, the book rested on her knee, just kept from falling by her
hold. She was looking out of the window, not seeing the trees in
the park, nor the glimpses of the hills beyond, but thinking how
pleasant it would be to have a husband once more; – some one
who would work while she sate at her elegant ease in a prettily-furnished drawing-room; and she was rapidly investing this imaginary
bread-winner with the form and features of the country surgeon,
when there was a slight tap at the door, and almost before she could
rise, the object of her thoughts came in. She felt herself blush, and
she was not displeased at the consciousness. She advanced to meet
him, making a sign towards her sleeping ladyship.
‘Very good,’ said he, in a low voice, casting a professional eye on
the slumbering figure; ‘can I speak to you for a minute or two in the
library?’
‘Is he going to offer?’ thought she, with a sudden palpitation,
and a conviction of her willingness to accept a man whom an hour
before she had simply looked upon as one of the category of unmarried men to whom matrimony was possible.
He was only going to make one or two medical inquiries; she
found that out very speedily, and considered the conversation as
rather flat to her, though it might be instructive to him. She was not
aware that he finally made up his mind to propose, during the time
that she was speaking – answering his questions in many words,
but he was accustomed to winnow the chaff from the corn; and her
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voice was so soft, her accent so pleasant, that it struck him as particularly agreeable after the broad country accent he was perpetually
hearing. Then the harmonious colours of her dress, and her slow
and graceful movements, had something of the same soothing effect upon his nerves that a cat’s purring has upon some people’s.
He began to think that he should be fortunate if he could win her,
for his own sake. Yesterday he had looked upon her more as a possible stepmother for Molly; to-day he thought more of her as a wife
for himself. The remembrance of Lord Cumnor’s letter gave her a
very becoming consciousness; she wished to attract, and hoped that
she was succeeding. Still they only talked of the countess’s state for
some time; then a lucky shower came on. Mr. Gibson did not care a
jot for rain, but just now it gave him an excuse for lingering.
‘It is very stormy weather,’ said he.
‘Yes, very. My daughter writes me word, that for two days last
week the packet could not sail from Boulogne.’
‘Miss Kirkpatrick is at Boulogne, is she?’
‘Yes, poor girl; she is at school there, trying to perfect herself in
the French language. But, Mr. Gibson, you must not call her Miss
Kirkpatrick. Cynthia remembers you with so much – affection, I
may say. She was your little patient when she had the measles here
four years ago, you know. Pray call her Cynthia; she would be quite
hurt at such a formal name as Miss Kirkpatrick from you.’
‘Cynthia seems to me such an out-of-the-way name, only fit for
poetry, not for daily use.’
‘It is mine,’ said Mrs. Kirkpatrick, in a plaintive tone of reproach.
‘I was christened Hyacinth, and her poor father would have called
her after me. I’m sorry you don’t like it.’
Mr. Gibson did not know what to say. He was not quite prepared
to plunge into the directly personal style. While he was hesitating,
she went on, –
‘Hyacinth Clare! Once upon a time I was quite proud of my
pretty name; and other people thought it pretty, too.’
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ELIZABETH CLEGHORN GASKELL
‘I’ve no doubt – ’ Mr. Gibson began; and then stopped.
‘Perhaps I did wrong in yielding to his wish, to have her called
by such a romantic name. It may excite prejudice against her in
some people; and, poor child! she will have enough to struggle with.
A young daughter is a great charge, Mr. Gibson, especially when
there is only one parent to look after her.’
‘You are quite right,’ said he, recalled to the remembrance of
Molly; ‘though I should have thought that a girl who is so fortunate
as to have a mother could not feel the loss of her father so acutely as
one who is motherless must suffer from her deprivation.’
‘You are thinking of your own daughter. It was careless of me to
say what I did. Dear child! how well I remember her sweet little face
as she lay sleeping on my bed. I suppose she is nearly grown-up now.
She must be near my Cynthia’s age. How I should like to see her!’
‘I hope you will. I should like you to see her. I should like you
to love my poor little Molly, – to love her as your own – ’ He swallowed down something that rose in his throat, and was nearly choking him.
‘Is he going to offer? Is he?’ she wondered; and she began to
tremble in the suspense before he next spoke.
‘Could you love her as your daughter? Will you try? Will you
give me the right of introducing you to her as her future mother; as
my wife?’
There! he had done it – whether it was wise or foolish – he had
done it; but he was aware that the question as to its wisdom came
into his mind the instant that the words were said past recall.
She hid her face in her hands.
‘Oh! Mr. Gibson,’ she said; and then, a little to his surprise, and
a great deal to her own, she burst into hysterical tears: it was such
a wonderful relief to feel that she need not struggle any more for a
livelihood.
‘My dear – my dearest,’ said he, trying to soothe her with word
and caress; but, just at the moment, uncertain what name he ought
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to use. After her sobbing had abated a little, she said herself, as if
understanding his difficulty, –
‘Call me Hyacinth – your own Hyacinth. I can’t bear «Clare,» it
does so remind me of being a governess, and those days are all past
now.’
‘Yes; but surely no one can have been more valued, more beloved than you have been in this family at least.’
‘Oh, yes! they have been very good. But still one has always had
to remember one’s position.’
‘We ought to tell Lady Cumnor,’ said he, thinking, perhaps,
more of the various duties which lay before him, in consequence of
the step he had just taken, than of what his future bride was saying.
‘You’ll tell her, won’t you?’ said she, looking up in his face with
beseeching eyes. ‘I always like other people to tell her things, and
then I can see how she takes them.’
‘Certainly! I will do whatever you wish. Shall we go and see if
she is awake now?’
‘No! I think not. I had better prepare her. You will come to-morrow, won’t you? and you will tell her then.’
‘Yes; that will be best. I ought to tell Molly first. She has the
right to know. I do hope you and she will love each other dearly.’
‘Oh, yes! I’m sure we shall. Then you’ll come to-morrow and tell
Lady Cumnor? And I’ll prepare her.’
‘I don’t see what preparation is necessary; but you know best,
my dear. When can we arrange for you and Molly to meet?’
Just then a servant came in, and the pair started apart.
‘Her ladyship is awake, and wishes to see Mr. Gibson.’
They both followed the man upstairs; Mrs. Kirkpatrick trying hard to look as if nothing had happened, for she particularly
wished ‘to prepare’ Lady Cumnor; that is to say, to give her version
of Mr Gibson’s extreme urgency, and her own coy unwillingness.
But Lady Cumnor had observant eyes in sickness as well as in
health. She had gone to sleep with the recollection of the passage in
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her husband’s letter full in her mind, and, perhaps, it gave a direction to her wakening ideas.
‘I’m glad you’re not gone, Mr. Gibson. I wanted to tell you – –
What’s the matter with you both? What have you been saying to
Clare? I’m sure something has happened.’
There was nothing for it, in Mr. Gibson’s opinion, but to make
a clean breast of it, and tell her ladyship all. He turned round, and
took hold of Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s hand, and said out straight, ‘I have
been asking Mrs. Kirkpatrick to be my wife, and to be a mother to
my child; and she has consented. I hardly know how to thank her
enough in words.’
‘Umph! I don’t see any objection. I dare say you’ll be very happy.
I’m very glad of it! Here! shake hands with me, both of you.’ Then
laughing a little, she added, ‘It does not seem to me that any exertion has been required on my part.’
Mr. Gibson looked perplexed at these words. Mrs. Kirkpatrick
reddened. ‘Did she not tell you? Oh, then, I must. It’s too good a joke
to be lost, especially as everything has ended so well. When Lord
Cumnor’s letter came this morning – this very morning – I gave it
to Clare to read aloud to me, and I saw she suddenly came to a full
stop, where no full stop could be, and I thought it was something
about Agnes, so I took the letter and read – stay! I’ll read the sentence to you. Where’s the letter, Clare? Oh! don’t trouble yourself,
here it is. «How are Clare and Gibson getting on? You despised my
advice to help on that affair, but I really think a little match-making would be a very pleasant amusement now that you are shut up
in the house; and I cannot conceive any marriage more suitable.»
You see, you have my lord’s full approbation. But I must write, and
tell him you have managed your own affairs without any interference of mine. Now we’ll just have a little medical talk, Mr. Gibson,
and then you and Clare shall finish your _tete-a-tete_.’
They were neither of them quite as desirous of further conversation together as they had been before the passage out of Lord
Cumnor’s letter had been read aloud. Mr. Gibson tried not to think
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about it, for he was aware that if he dwelt upon it, he might get to
fancy all sorts of things, as to the conversation which had ended in
his offer. But Lady Cumnor was imperious now, as always.
‘Come, no nonsense. I always made my girls go and have _tetea-tetes_ with the men who were to be their husbands, whether they
would or no: there’s a great deal to be talked over before every marriage, and you two are certainly old enough to be above affectation.
Go away with you.’ So there was nothing for it but for them to return to the library; Mrs. Kirkpatrick pouting a little, and Mr. Gibson
feeling more like his own cool, sarcastic self, by many degrees, than
he had done when last in that room.
She began, half crying, –
‘I cannot tell what poor Kirkpatrick would say if he knew what
I have done. He did so dislike the notion of second marriages, poor
fellow.’
‘Let us hope that he does not know, then; or that, if he does
know, he is wiser – I mean, that he sees how second marriages may
be most desirable and expedient in some cases.’
Altogether, this second _tete-a-tete_, done to command, was
not so satisfactory as the first; and Mr. Gibson was quite alive to the
necessity of proceeding on his round to see his patients before very
much time had elapsed.
‘We shall shake down into uniformity before long, I’ve no
doubt,’ said he to himself, as he rode away. ‘It’s hardly to be expected
that our thoughts should run in the same groove all at once. Nor
should I like it,’ he added. ‘It would be very flat and stagnant to have
only an echo of one’s own opinions from one’s wife. Heigho! I must
tell Molly about it: dear little woman, I wonder how she’ll take it!
It’s done, in a great measure, for her good.’ And then he lost himself
in recapitulating Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s good qualities, and the advantages to be gained to his daughter from the step he had just taken.
It was too late to go round by Hamley that afternoon. The
Towers and the Towers’ round lay just in the opposite direction
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to Hamley. So it was the next morning before Mr. Gibson arrived
at the hall, timing his visit as well as he could so as to have halfan-hour’s private talk with Molly before Mrs. Hamley came down
into the drawing-room. He thought that his daughter would require sympathy after receiving the intelligence he had to communicate; and he knew there was no one more fit to give it than Mrs.
Hamley.
It was a brilliantly hot summer’s morning; men in their shirtsleeves were in the fields getting in the early harvest of oats; as Mr.
Gibson rode slowly along, he could see them over the tall hedgerows, and even hear the soothing measured sound of the fall of the
long swathes, as they were mown. The labourers seemed too hot to
talk; the dog, guarding their coats and cans, lay panting loudly on
the other side of the elm, under which Mr. Gibson stopped for an instant to survey the scene, and gain a little delay before the interview
that he wished was well over. In another minute he had snapped at
himself for his weakness, and put spurs to his horse. He came up to
the hall at a good sharp trot; it was earlier than the usual time of
his visits, and no one was expecting him; all the stablemen were in
the fields, but that signified little to Mr Gibson; he walked his horse
about for five minutes or so before taking him into the stable, and
loosened his girths, examining him with perhaps unnecessary exactitude. He went into the house by a private door, and made his way
into the drawing-room, half expecting, however, that Molly would
be in the garden. She had been there, but it was too hot and dazzling now for her to remain out of doors, and she had come in by
the open window of the drawing-room. Oppressed with the heat,
she had fallen asleep in an easy-chair, her bonnet and open book
upon her knee, one arm hanging listlessly down. She looked very
soft, and young, and childlike; and a gush of love sprang into her
father’s heart as he gazed at her.
‘Molly!’ said he, gently, taking the little brown hand that was
hanging down, and holding it in his own. ‘Molly!’
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